“We have won the first battle!” he said proudly. “The might of our warriors frightens even such aliens as yourselves. You shall not profane our temple while a man is alive on Cascella!”
The natives shouted their approval and triumph.
The two aliens dazedly stumbled back to their ship.
So that’s what Galactic meant by ‘a unique social structure,’ ” Fannie said morosely. He stripped off his armor and lay down on his bunk. “Their way of making war is to suicide their enemies into capitulation.”
“They must be nuts,” Don-naught grumbled. “That’s no way to fight.”
“It works, doesn’t it?” Fannia got up and stared out a porthole. The sun was setting, painting the city a charming red in its glow. The beams of light glistened off the spire of the Galactic cache. Through the open doorway they could hear the boom and rattle of drums. “Tribal call to arms,” Fannia said.
“I still say it’s crazy.” Donnaught had some definite ideas on fighting. “It ain’t human.”
“I’ll buy that. The idea seems to be that if enough people slaughter themselves, the enemy gives up out of sheer guilty conscience?
“What if the enemy doesn’t give up?”
“Before these people united, they must have fought it out tribe to tribe, suiciding until someone gave up. The losers probably, joined the victors; the tribe must have grown until it could take over the planet by sheer weight of numbers.” Fannia looked carefully at Donnaught, trying to see if he understood. “It’s anti-survival, of course; if someone didn’t give up, the race would probably kill themselves.” He shook his head. “But war of any kind is anti-survival. Perhaps they’ve got rules.”